Lionson
by Min Daae
Summary: Joffrey Baratheon and envy.


Joffrey Baratheon wanted to go home.

He hated the North. It was ugly and cold and the people were all too quiet, and he was bored. His father seemed distracted. His father was always distracted. "Why would anyone want to live here?" He asked loudly, of no one in particular. "I don't like it here."

The only thing to like was Lord Stark's daughter – the older one. She was pretty, and even if she sometimes seemed to be a little childish, that wasn't her fault. Maybe they just didn't know how ladies were supposed to behave up here in the North. He hoped she'd come back with them to King's Landing, that would at least make coming here worthwhile.

But even if they were uncouth and impolite and uncivilized, that wasn't really what bothered Joffrey about the Starks. They seemed so – well, free. Joffrey wondered if that was why Robb Stark looked like a man and Joffrey didn't. Privately, Joffrey was afraid that he didn't look like much of anything. Not regal enough, not tall enough, not burly enough. When he tried to look regal, he only looked petulant, and that made him angry; when he was angry his face squeezed up and turned red.

He wondered if his mother had coddled him. Once, he'd heard the Hound say that his mother was making him soft. But his dog never let him fight his own battles either. When he was younger, Joffrey had felt powerful, having the Hound there to kill people for him. Now it made him feel helpless. His father had killed people. His father had killed Rhaegar Targaryen, crushed his chest in just like _that. _That was power, real power.

"Dog," he said, suddenly. "Does my mother coddle me?"

The Hound grunted. "I wouldn't know."

"I think she coddles me," Joffrey said with new conviction. "I think she wants me to stay a child forever. I don't think she ever wants me to be a man. Because then I wouldn't have to listen to her anymore."

"Huh," the Hound said, but Joffrey knew he was right and he only couldn't say anything because it was his mother who paid his Dog.

"I'll just have to prove to her," he said, firmly, "That I'm not going to be a little boy anymore, and that she can't make me be." He paused, feeling a little sprig of hope well up. "Maybe that's why father never notices me. Because he thinks I'm not a real man, that I like to be coddled. Maybe once I prove that I don't…" Joffrey looked up hopefully at his Hound for confirmation. "Maybe then he'll like me."

The Hound said nothing, but Joffrey knew he was right. Straightening up with renewed determination, he turned to start back toward the castle.

Behind him, a wolf howled. Joffrey jumped and automatically stepped behind the Hound, but managed to stop himself. "They should be hunting those," he said with a shudder, hoping his voice sounded more disgusted than afraid. He didn't like that _sound. _"Not stupid deer."

"Get back inside," the Hound said roughly. "Even I don't want to deal with a direwolf alone."

Joffrey slumped. Once again, he was too helpless, too weak, to take care of himself. "Fine," he said angrily. "This place is filthy, anyway. I want to go home." He hoped Sansa would come back with them. This wasn't the right kind of place for her. It would be like _rescuing _her, to bring her to King's Landing. Rescuing her from her family and the cold weather and the wildlings and the wolves. He liked the sound of that.

He kicked up a clod of dirt. That morning as the hunting party had been leaving, he'd seen Robb Stark run up and embrace his father, grinning. What did he have to be so happy about? Robb Stark was a stupid, backward northerner. Robb Stark wasn't a prince, wasn't handsome. No one would sing songs about _him. _

But Robb Stark's father loved him, and watching sullenly from a distance Joffrey had wondered if there was some kind of secret to it, some kind of magic that would make his father care like that, and if he just watched long enough he'd figure it out.

But there didn't seem to be anything. Robb wasn't special, not the way Joffrey knew he was. He couldn't even fight with a real sword. There was no reason to be jealous.

Joffrey picked up a stick and slashed viciously at the ferns.

No reason at all.


End file.
